


Study in Blue

by CherryBlossomTide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Gen Fic, Sherlock-centric, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An 18 year old Sherlock is about to start a new life. Mycroft, as always, is worried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Study in Blue

Sherlock could tell that there would be some difficulty finding a parking space – the line ahead was slow moving and no wonder: the car park was clogged with suitcases, abandoned trolleys, people _hugging_. A fat man in a luminous jacket gesticulated at them to turn left (absurd decision, clearly the traffic would be more easily dispersed if it was allowed to move in a clockwise direction.) He wound down the window to say so, but Mycroft clicked his tongue.

"Sherlock," he cautioned.

Sherlock huffed, but for once decided not to argue. He turned left and they waited with the engine juddering, for the mess of cars in front to untangle itself.

"I thought Cambridge Dons were supposed to be intelligent." Sherlock snapped.

"Where _did_ you get that idea?" Mycroft said. Mycroft still hadn't forgiven Sherlock for choosing Cambridge over his own beloved Oxford. For someone so rational, Mycroft had an absurd reverence for that tired old rivalry. Tradition. The act of clinging to established patterns of behaviour not because they had any intrinsic value, but because it allowed one to indulge in a false sense of security. One would think Mycroft, of all people, would know better.

"I do believe," Mycroft said suddenly. "That Dallerston has a nephew attending King's this year. If you like I could introduce-"

"No, thank you."

"I know you think you don't need friends, Sherlock, but I think you'll find…."

"Is that why you're here?" Sherlock interrupted him. "Trying to tie me in to the old boys' network? Or are you just looking for new recruits to spy on me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The car in front of them crawled a few feet forwards. Sherlock revved his engine noisily, and lurched the car forward, braking just in time to avoid a collision. He was gratified to notice Mycroft's knuckles tighten on his umbrella handle.

"Why are you here, then? Worried that I'm going to disgrace you? It isn't Oxford; they won't all know you here."

Mycroft turned an implacable face toward him. "That," he said. "Has never been my concern."

"No?" Sherlock scoffed.

"No."

Sherlock switched off the engine (it was clearly going to be a while) and turned away, arms folded. Mycroft was a liar.

"You have correctly deduced," Mycroft's voice was insistently soft. "That I am concerned. Sherlock. You are not going to find this easy."

"And how the _hell_ would you know that?" Sherlock hit out at the steering wheel, inadvertently letting out a sharp blast of sound. The woman in front turned around, scowling at him.

Mycroft didn't flinch. "You haven't had experience of being among your peers, not since Ashford. Here you will be living among them. Twenty four hours a day."

" Ashford was ten years ago." 

"I know." Mycroft looked away. "But-"

" _But_ I can manage, Mycroft. I won't make the same mistakes."

Mycroft said nothing.

" Anyway, I _do_ spend time with my peers, my homeless network….."

"I don't believe one technically refers to them as peers if one has to pay them to speak to you."

"I don't pay them for conversation, I pay them for information. Exactly how many friends do you have, brother dear?"

"I can handle myself."

"I can handle myself, too! This isn't like Ashford – I understand people much better now. I know how to read them."

Mycroft was silent.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying but failing to hold back the inevitable – useless – diatribe.

"Look at the car in front. It's a nice car, you'd think they were a wealthy family, wouldn't you? Except look at the spots of mud under the tailpipe, that's thick mud, winter mud, the car hasn't been properly cleaned since last February. And that suitcase, over three years old but no tags, these people can't even afford a holiday abroad – and they'd _love_ to go, look at the mother's fake tan."

Mycroft held up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, a sign either of exasperation or an oncoming migraine. But Sherlock couldn't stop.

"They don't have enough money for the class they aspire to but are intelligent enough to put up a creditable imitation. Their daughter – of course it is a daughter, look at the the window sticker - got here on a scholarship, although I expect she'll lie about that because her parents have taught her that is the correct thing to do."

"And _this_ is how you intend to make friends." Mycroft's voice was heavy with weariness. Sherlock wanted to hit him.

"You don't know everything about me, Mycroft."

Mycroft lowered his hand, breathing out. "The queue is starting to move again."

He was right. The car in front of them was already moving steadily forward. Sherlock restarted the engine with a muttered curse.

Once they had finally found a parking space, Sherlock went to the porter's lodge to register and pick up his keys. Mycroft waited by the car, flexing his legs gingerly, as if he'd been sitting cramped for days not the mere hour it had taken for Sherlock to drive from London. He watched Sherlock load the bags onto the trolly he'd been assigned without offering to help.

"Can I help you find your room?" A girl in an oversized college hoodie bounced over. Sherlock shot her a quick look – blonde hair, chipped nails, traces of frayed tissue paper on her sleeve, no jewellery but a faint indentation on the back of her neck where a chain had, until recently, hung. She had been crying all morning, most likely the result of a recent relationship break up, Sherlock concluded. Still, her smile was bright and enthusiastic now, probably some kind of chemical effect – endorphins released after a crying jag. He would have to look it up.

"I don't think we need-" he began.

"That would be lovely, thank you." Mycroft cut him off.

The girl beamed, "Wonderful, if you'll tell me the room number?" Sherlock showed her the key he'd been given (E23) and she led the way, cheerily chatting to Mycroft about college tradition as Sherlock pushed the trolly.

The room turned out to be an attic room, situated at the top of a flight of well worn wooden stairs. Mycroft and Sherlock brought the boxes up, one by one (Mycroft, of course, picked the lightest boxes to carry, and moved maddeningly slowly up the stairs). The girl offered to help, but both brothers waved her aside, in a thoroughly hypocritical display of chivalry. At last, Sherlock was moved in.

"You're a bit isolated." The girl admitted looking around at the bare room. "This room is usually bottom of the housing ballot – it's one of the most unpopular rooms," she explained to Mycroft, quite unnecessarily. "Even though it's so big. The draft tends to come in from the old fireplace - you aren't allowed to use it, health and safety. And, of course, because it's an attic room the ceiling slopes. You're so tall, you'll be getting a crick in your neck half the time."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "There must be other rooms available. I'll have a word with the accommodations office…"

"I like this one." Sherlock said, decisively.

"But -"

"I _like_ it."

There was a brief silence while the girl in the hoodie glanced from Sherlock to Mycroft, obviously confused by the sudden tension in the air.

"Well I – had better go and see if anyone else needs help," she said. "Sherlock, I hope you have a great time settling in. If you need any help with anything, I'll be about. My name's Emma Starling. I'm welfare officer here, so any problems just let me know."

"Thank you, you have been very kind." Mycroft said unctuously. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The girl blinked at him, and then left. They heard her feet echoing away on the wooden stairs.

"I do hope you'll wrap up warmly." Mycroft said at last. "You know how susceptible you are to respiratory infections." He jabbed at the empty fireplace with his umbrella.

Sherlock walked to the window, a dirty skylight set low in the sloping ceiling (the Starling girl was right, he did have to stoop). He could see down into the main quadrangle, - if he craned his head a little he could see the entrance to the dining hall. Useful for surveillance. Sherlock watched as a knot of students emerged, two well-built young men in blazers, a girl carrying an armful of books. One of the boys bent to say something in her ear, and she threw back her head, laughing. Supposedly, this place contained the most intelligent young people of his generation – the top five per cent, this generation's big thinkers. He traced a finger down the window pane, eyes fixed on the group below. They looked so ordinary.

Behind him, Mycroft sighed. He was still frowning down into the empty fireplace as if he might find the answer to some pressing question there. His suit was too tight; he'd put on a whole five pounds since Mother's funeral.

Abruptly, Sherlock turned to the pile of boxes in the corner, yanking out his violin case from underneath a jumble of clothes. Mycroft looked at him tiredly.

"Must you?"

"What better way to christen the room?" Sherlock grinned at his brother, and drew his bow out of the case. "Some Mendelssohn is called for, I believe."

Mycroft held out his hand in defeat. "Later. I must go."

"I'll see you to the car." Sherlock was all smiles.

On the way back down the stairs they bumped into another knot of people coming up. The Starling girl was coming back up again, this time accompanied by a boy with floppy hair and expensive jeans, and just behind them, a couple - woman: tall, silk scarfed, elegantly made up – eyes slightly red. Man: broad shouldered, large belly, evidently once a keen rugby player, now running to fat. The boy's parents, evidently.

"Ah, Sherlock!" The Starling girl did a creditable impression of being pleased to see him again. "Meet Sebastian – he'll be living on the landing below you."

The boy stepped forward with a practised smile and an outstretched hand "Sebastian Wilkes."

Sherlock looked down at his new neighbour through narrowed eyes. He was from one of the larger public schools, clearly, Sherlock could tell that from the way he held himself, and his tone of voice (he'd watched Mycroft practising this exact stance and smile in front of a mirror on holidays home from Harrow). His clothes were expensive but carelessly worn. His blazer was clearly not more than a week old but already had a bleach stain near the collar, probably from some form of peroxide based acne treatment. There was a hair – dyed blonde, dark roots showing, clinging to his shoulder, and the skin at the corner of his mouth glistened very slightly. He had said goodbye to a women recently, not his mother, whose lipstick was clearly the more expensive colourfast brand, and whose hair was brown. Could be an aunt, but probably a girlfriend, and judging by the slight chapping of the boy's lips, one who was either passionately disposed toward him, or anxious to leave a lasting impression. With good reason - Sebatian's eyes were lingering on the Starling girl's backside as they climbed.

Behind him, Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock looked down and remembered he was supposed to take the boy's hand. He reached out.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"What good luck that we met each other right away! I was looking forward to meeting my neighbours." 

"Not neighbour, technically, I believe I live above you." He corrected, although he was aware it wasn't necessary.

The boy looked faintly surprised. "Yes, well. This is my mother and father." He gestured behind him.

With his peripheral vision Sherlock was aware of Mycroft tilting his head slightly, as if to say _here's your chance to prove me wrong._

Sherlock turned back with a grin to mirror Sebastian's. "Simply splendid to meet you." He effused, shaking hands with the father, and then moving to the mother. Was it correct to shake a woman's hand? In the end he took it in his and bowed over it. It was a bit of a flowery gesture, but the woman seemed to enjoy it, the corner of her mouth quirking a little.

Mycroft had moved forward as well, and Sherlock took the hint, "Do meet my brother, Mycroft."

Sebastian's father immediately perked up at this, lifting his heavy head to peer into the gloom of the corridor. "Mycroft Holmes, is it? Well, I've heard all about you. One of our new up and comers, I've heard."

"Yes? How kind of you to say so." Mycroft preened, pushing past Sherlock to advance on the Wilkes man. Sebastian rolled his eyes at Sherlock, a gesture which Sherlock supposed implied some kind of fellowship in the face of grown up politics. Sherlock turned the idea - bonding over familial ambition - over in his mind for a moment. It wasn't unpleasant. 

"So Sherlock, you play any sports?"

"Not usually. Although I am fond of running." Sherlock answered honestly.

"Yeah? I'm a cricket man myself – batsman by preference. What school were you at, by the way?"

Sherlock felt suddenly and abruptly that the staircase was far too narrow and airless for so many human bodies.

"Mycroft, don't you need to get going?" he said. Mycroft glanced impenetrably at Sherlock for a moment, and then nodded. "I'm afraid a full evening's work lies ahead of me." He smiled. "Charmed to meet you, Sir, do drop by my club next time you are in town. Ma'am."

"I'll see you around," Sebastian called back as they retreated. Sherlock bared his teeth in a smile. His heart was still thumping unpleasantly. Stupid not to have anticipated that question.

He would have to think up a satisfactory answer and quickly.

Mycroft's frown deepened as they walked back toward the car park. Somehow Sherlock found the silence oppressive. It made him wonder if Mycroft had noticed Sherlock's fumble over the school - well, of course Mycroft had noticed it. He noticed almost everything. Sherlock searched for a distraction.

"Looking forward to the drive back?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft detested driving – it was one of the reasons Sherlock had insisted on taking an unchauffeured car. If Mycroft insisted on accompanying him, Sherlock was going to make sure he suffered for it.

Mycroft only smiled that particular smile of his, as if acknowledging a hit scored by an opponent.

"I shall manage."

There was a silence. They reached the car, and Mycroft stopped and turned to look at him, intently. Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable avalanche of 'concern'. "If you need anything, you can call my assistant. You remember the number?"

"Of course." Sherlock said loftily.

"She will be able to locate me at any time. I have moved some money into your account, it should see you through this term."

Sherlock bristled. "I have my scholarship money, I don't need any of yours."

"Ours, Sherlock. Mother left it to me in trust, for both of us to use."

"Mother left it 'in trust' to you because she didn't _trust_ me." Sherlock said, viciously. "I don't need it."

Mycroft sighed. "Well. It is there – in case you ever change your mind."

"I won't."

Sherlock took the car keys out of his pocket and threw them to his brother.

"Drive carefully," he said with sarcasm (Mycroft drove at a speed rarely achieved by any but the most ambitious tortoises).

"Sherlock-"

Mycroft hesitated for a moment and then mades a sudden motion with his hand. For a frightening moment Sherlock wondered if he was about to reach out a hand and touch him. But no, he was reaching into his pocket, pulling something out. A parcel, neatly wrapped (no doubt by Mycroft's assistant.) Sherlock opened it gingerly.

"Its a scarf."

"I had it made for you. Cambridge blue."

"With a stripe down the middle - Oxford blue." Sherlock pointed out.

Mycroft's smile resembled a Cheshire cat's. "Good luck, Sherlock."

Sherlock fingered the scarf. The material was soft between his fingers.

"I won't need luck."

"Of course not."

Mycroft's eyes gleamed momentarily, as he got into the car. Sherlock watched his brother turn the keys in the ignition and pull out, the old car juddering away through the now empty car park, before turning and heading back to his room.

Just outside the college Sherlock stopped for a brief moment looking up at the ornate façade rising up in front of him, windows glowing with yellow against the grey stone. His new college. His new home. He found himself shivering, and absently he wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulling it tight before heading back inside.


End file.
